


best friends means you get what you deserve

by suzukiblu



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Ambiguous Setup, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Friendship, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Needs a Hug, Imaginary Friends, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Immortality, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Male Friendship, Mild Gore, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-28
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:28:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24962299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suzukiblu/pseuds/suzukiblu
Summary: Jaskier wakes up in Posada. He’s been a lot of other places, but Posada is the one where he wakes up.The one where someone needs him enough to make him exist, rather.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, background Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer of Vengerberg - Relationship
Comments: 125
Kudos: 1416
Collections: Best Geralt, The Best Fics I've Read





	best friends means you get what you deserve

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Prim_the_Amazing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/gifts).



> Written for Prim_the_Amazing, who wanted immortal Jaskier based on one of [these](https://trashbaggage.tumblr.com/post/621175009044529152/possibilities-for-immortaljaskier) headcanons and let me pick which one. I abused the privilege to pick a crack one and take it way too seriously. 
> 
> Also, the headcanon I picked was one sentence long. This . . . this is a lot longer than that.

Jaskier wakes up in Posada. He’s been a lot of other places, but Posada is the one where he wakes up. 

The one where someone needs him enough to make him exist, rather. 

.

.

.

Geralt of Rivia is a very lonely man. Jaskier knows this from the first moment of his creation. He knows very little else, except for music. 

He’s not sure why he knows music. It doesn’t seem to be relevant to Geralt, unlike literally everything else he knows. 

The first things that Jaskier learns about himself upon waking up: he’s dressed too nicely, he has a lute, and he’s not very good at writing songs. 

And he already knows everything he needs to know about Geralt, of course. 

.

.

.

The more time Jaskier spends around Geralt, the better he gets. He exists _for_ Geralt, so that makes sense, and because he exists for Geralt, well, obviously he exists to make things better for _Geralt_ too, he decides. 

Or possibly he’s supposed to kill him. But Jaskier doesn’t think he’s the type to be killing anyone, really. 

Humans don’t have a name for the kind of thing Jaskier is; even witchers don’t. _Jaskier_ doesn’t even have a name for the kind of thing he is. As far as he knows, there isn’t one. 

So it’s hard to define himself beyond what he is to Geralt. He could try, he supposes, but there’s not much point. He barely exists when the other’s not around. He’s vaguely aware that a body walks around doing things he’d probably do, yes, but he feels like he’s dreaming for most of it. He only wakes up when Geralt shows up. 

He can be away from him for a bit, of course, but only a bit. 

And he doesn’t really want to, anyway. 

Sometimes it’s a long sleep before he sees Geralt again, but in the end, he always does. 

.

.

.

“Don’t follow me,” Geralt says. Jaskier looks up from tuning his lute. 

“Ah, off after another vicious beastie?” he says lightly. “I don’t know why you don’t let me come along, I’m hardly going to _die_.” He’s fairly sure he can’t, actually, at least not while Geralt’s alive himself. 

“Don’t follow me,” Geralt repeats, then turns and leaves the inn. Jaskier sighs, and resigns himself to dozing through the time until the other returns. Hopefully he won’t get in too much trouble, though that’s probably hoping a bit much. He does stupid things when he’s dreaming. Geralt does stupid things when he's not around too, so at least he's not alone in that. 

Jaskier overhears some people talking about Geralt at another table, and because he always wants to know everything about Geralt, he listens in. 

“The witcher’s a handsome bastard, isn’t he,” a woman says, and the woman with her snorts. 

“Waste of one, in my opinion,” she says. 

“He’s going to get eaten,” the third member of their group predicts. 

“He’s a _witcher_ , though!” the first woman says. “Don’t they know how to handle monsters?” 

“Six men went after that thing together and didn’t come back,” the third says darkly. “This one isn’t going to be any different just because he’s a mutant.” 

Hm. Perhaps Jaskier hasn’t played quite enough songs here, he thinks. Usually the “mutant” insult doesn’t get tossed around so easily once he’s done his spiel. An encore might be in order. 

Well, it’s not as if he has anything else to do with his time right now, he supposes. 

.

.

.

Geralt comes back in the morning covered in mud and blood and dragging a disturbingly large severed head through the street behind him. Jaskier wakes up in a stranger’s bed and has to escape out the window before said stranger’s significant other walks in. 

“Hello, Geralt,” he greets as he’s trying to figure out how to get down off the roof of the inn. Geralt gives him a dubious look, then keeps dragging his severed head along. Jaskier is mildly offended. He could at least have said hello _back_. 

Really. So rude. 

A bit of searching later, Jaskier manages to get off the roof. He falls the last few feet and lands in the dirt, but he doesn’t break his lute or any bones, so that’s fine. He gets to his feet and dusts off, and then goes looking for Geralt. He finds him, unsurprisingly, arguing about money with the mayor. 

Really, why he doesn’t always just get paid up front is beyond Jaskier. 

“What’s all this?” he says, inserting himself into the conversation shamelessly, and five minutes later Geralt’s been paid and they’re on their way back to the inn. 

This is probably one of the reasons he exists, Jaskier decides. Geralt really is _terrible_ at getting paid. 

“You could say thank you, you know,” he mentions to the other on principle. Geralt just grunts, being Geralt. Jaskier sighs. Well, he didn’t really expect different. 

Sometimes he really does wonder what Geralt wanted him for, though. 

.

.

.

Jaskier gets stabbed in a bar fight while he's dreaming, and wakes up again as soon as Geralt comes to town. 

Well, he was already pretty sure he couldn't die as long as Geralt's alive, so it's not exactly a shock. 

A bit of one for the priest, admittedly, but that's a whole other thing. 

.

.

.

“You're a wreck,” Jaskier says a few days or years later; the difference doesn’t really matter. Geralt ignores him, sinking lower in the bath. Jaskier rolls his eyes and folds up the other’s discarded clothes, because someone might as well. 

Geralt really _is_ a wreck. He's been chasing monsters all day, and he came back to the latest inn filthy and exhausted and bleeding. Jaskier got very few details of what he actually did out of him, as usual. If Geralt doesn't want him to follow him on his jobs the least he could do would be provide him with a proper retelling of them, but nooo, that'd be too useful. 

Really, what does Geralt think he's here for? 

. . . what _does_ Geralt think he's here for, Jaskier wonders. 

He doesn't usually think about things like that. He exists, of course, and he knows everything important about Geralt, and . . . well, that's it, isn't it. He exists and he knows everything important about Geralt. 

And he knows music, for some reason. 

Jaskier frowns to himself, setting Geralt's folded clothes aside. He's here to know everything about Geralt, and he _thinks_ that means he's here to make life better for him, but Geralt himself doesn't seem to agree with that assessment. And, well, if anyone would know what Jaskier is for . . . 

He shakes his head and picks up a vial of scented oil to pour in the bath. Geralt barely knows what he's for _himself_ , obsessed with the Path as he is. Who's to say he even understands what he made Jaskier for. 

. . . Geralt _did_ make him, didn't he? 

Jaskier frowns again. 

.

.

.

Jaskier doesn't see Geralt for a while, and sleeps his way through life waiting for him to reappear. 

Mostly he sings, he thinks. 

.

.

.

"What do you think I'm for?" Jaskier asks the next time he sees Geralt, a little worried about the answer, but Geralt doesn't seem to understand the question. 

"This isn't the time, Jaskier," he says, his eyes tracking sharply through the trees. Jaskier tries not to sigh. What's he so worried about? It's just a handful of creatures. Nothing Geralt hasn't dealt with before. 

"Really, though, I _mean_ it," he says. 

_"Jaskier,"_ Geralt says sharply. "If you want to survive this, shut up." 

Jaskier starts to retort, exasperated, and then for the first time it occurs to him that Geralt thinks he can die. He frowns. What? 

Why would Geralt think that? 

"Geralt," he starts, and then a slavering murderous hellbeast bursts out of the undergrowth and Geralt hurls himself between him and it, silver sword out, and Jaskier . . . blinks, slowly, and watches the fight. 

Geralt thinks he can die, he thinks. 

Maybe that means he can. 

Or maybe . . . 

.

.

.

Geralt, Jaskier has come to realize, has mistaken Jaskier for a real person. He doesn't realize that he didn't exist before they met, or that he sleeps through the times when he's not around. He thinks he's . . . what, exactly? Just some obsessed fop who won't stop tagging along after him? Some strange and stupid man with a lute and a fixation? 

Jaskier isn't sure how he feels about that. 

He also isn't sure how it took him this damn long to figure that out. Geralt's been mistaking him for a person all this time, and he's been obliviously going along with it without even meaning to. 

He considers correcting the mis-assumption, but at this point he's not sure how to without it being a problem. _Actually, Geralt, I'm not human,_ seems like an awkward conversation to have with anyone, much less a witcher. 

Possibly he should do it anyway, but in the end he doesn't. If Geralt thinks he's human, well . . . doesn't that mean Geralt _needs_ to think he's human? 

Most things about Jaskier are things Geralt needs, after all. 

.

.

.

Geralt is a very lonely man. Jaskier keeps him company the best he can, keeps people from mistreating and running him out of town more often than not, and follows him around to fill the silence, but it doesn't seem to matter. Jaskier tries again and again, and Geralt continues to be lonely. 

It's a bit frustrating, although admittedly Jaskier's not a real person so he probably doesn't count as "company", whether Geralt knows it or not. He's a witcher, after all. Who knows what kind of things his instincts might be picking up on, even if his medallion isn’t. 

It's still a bit frustrating. Jaskier does his best, though, because that's all he can do. 

.

.

.

"Geralt," he says. 

Geralt only answers about half the time, but at least he answers. 

.

.

.

The banquet is an issue. It's not really a Geralt-related thing, but Jaskier agreed to it while he was dreaming and stupid, and anyway, surely it's something Geralt should enjoy, isn't it? And it's _people_ , and Geralt needs to spend more time around those, ideally without paying for the privilege. Maybe he'll make some acquaintances. 

It does not, unfortunately, work out that way. 

Well, Geralt does see an old friend, it seems, but . . . well, the rest of it happens too. 

Jaskier really isn't very good at this, is he. 

Although in a sense, he supposes, this _is_ Geralt making an acquaintance. 

.

.

.

Geralt leaves and doesn't look back. 

Time and again after that, Jaskier finds himself in Cintra when he's dreaming. 

It’s very odd. 

.

.

.

"Hm," Yennefer of Vengerberg says, frowning at him. Jaskier is too busy being terrified of her to really think about it, but in his defense, _she's terrifying_. 

Geralt makes a friend, at least, but of course she's a horrible one. 

Beggars can't be choosers, Jaskier supposes. At least Yennefer is a real person. 

But Geralt, being Geralt, is still lonely. 

.

.

.

"You perhaps could talk to her about spending more time together, you realize," Jaskier says with great resignation the fourth or twentieth time Yennefer leaves before Geralt's woken up. Geralt ignores him to brood. Jaskier isn't sure what to do about him, frankly. Geralt's so lonely, and he wants so much, and he's so determined to never let himself have it because he just can't _trust_ it, and given his life experiences so far, well, Jaskier can't exactly blame him. 

He really does need to get better at this, he thinks, and resolves to do everything in his power to. 

They could go away somewhere, perhaps. That's an option. 

Jaskier would do just about anything if he thought it might make Geralt stop being lonely. 

.

.

.

And then Geralt doesn't want him anymore, and Jaskier nearly dies right there on the mountain. He was not previously aware he knew how to die, but apparently he does. It's actually very simple, and he could do it whenever he likes. 

He doesn't, but he nearly does. 

.

.

.

“I was joking about the crow’s feet, you know,” Yennefer says. Jaskier is only half-awake, and getting less so with every step down the mountain. 

“Obviously,” he says tiredly, rubbing at his eyes. “I _moisturize_ , you know.” 

“Somehow I feel like that’s not the reason you still look half your age,” Yennefer says. Jaskier just looks at her. Of all the things to care about _now_ . . . 

“Well?” he says. “Go on and tell me, then.” 

She ponders him for a long moment before she speaks. Jaskier still can’t imagine why she’d care enough to bother. 

“Curse?” she assumes eventually. 

“No, though it’s very telling that that’s the first place your mind went,” Jaskier says. 

“Blessing?” 

“Also no.” 

“Are you human?” she asks. 

“I have no idea,” Jaskier says wearily, because he’s _not_ , exactly, except “human” is the only thing Geralt’s ever wanted him to be. And he’s always been what Geralt wanted, whenever he could. He wasn’t often very _good_ at it, but he did it: made himself into a constant presence that required very little attention to keep around and bridged the gap between Geralt and humanity and was never afraid of him and could never, ever possibly be dangerous or require killing. He’s been silly and harmless and _human_ all this time, and he doesn’t know if he’s anything else anymore. 

He’s still about to end up dreaming without Geralt around, though. 

“How do you not know if you’re human?” Yennefer says. 

“Because I don’t,” Jaskier says irritably. “Ask Geralt, if you’re so fussed about it. He’s the one who made me.” 

“ _Made_ you?” Yennefer repeats, and Jaskier’s never actually said it out loud before but there’s something sort of . . . _satisfying_ about it, actually. 

“Yes,” he says. “I didn’t exist before he needed me.” 

“Needed,” Yennefer says doubtfully. 

“You don’t know how people treated him before me,” Jaskier says, hitching his bag higher on his shoulder. “And they don’t treat him that well _now_.” 

“Geralt can’t do magic like that,” Yennefer says. 

“I didn’t say I was magic,” Jaskier says. “I just said he made me.” 

“You’re not an illusion,” she says, touching his arm as if to be sure; as if she’s never touched him _before_. Jaskier sighs. 

“No, I’m not,” he says. She already knew that, obviously. “Quite solid and real, thank you very much.” 

“I knew there was something strange about you,” she muses. “But you’re telling me you’re something _impossible_.” 

“Not impossible,” Jaskier says. “People like me happen. Just people like _you_ never seem to notice. I imagine we’re usually more a hero in an hour of need or an ideal lover or something _romantic_ like that, but Geralt doesn’t exactly need that kind of thing.” 

“What does he need, then?” Yennefer asks. 

“What do you care?” Jaskier asks. 

“I don’t,” she lies. “But I want to know what you think you are.” 

“His, mostly,” Jaskier says. “So I imagine I’ll die now.” 

She laughs. He doesn’t. 

“You’re not serious,” she says scornfully. Jaskier shrugs. 

“I’m not really alive when I’m not around him anyway,” he says. “The body just sort of runs itself without me. And if he never wants me to be around him again . . .” 

“You’re talking to me right _now_ ,” Yennefer says. 

“Not for much longer,” Jaskier says as they take another step down the mountain and a fresh wave of exhaustion laps at his consciousness. Yennefer is not the person he would’ve picked to have his last conversation with, but he supposes it’s better than it being Geralt snarling at him. 

“Does he know any of this?” 

“No.” 

“You’re an idiot.” 

“Yes, well . . .” Jaskier shrugs again. He’ll miss music, he thinks. Music was always the best thing, next to Geralt. “There’s not much to be done, unfortunately, unless I want to spend the next couple centuries stalking the man from a distance until he dies. Doubt he’d appreciate that. Also doubt I could pull it off.” 

“He’s angry,” Yennefer says. “He wouldn’t _kill_ you over that.” 

“I mean, I know that,” Jaskier says. “But he is.” 

That’s about when he starts dreaming, though he doesn’t know if Yennefer notices or not. 

.

.

.

It’s a long sleep. 

.

.

.

It’s a long, long sleep. 

.

.

.

“Jaskier?” 

“Mm?” Jaskier blinks, and shakes himself awake. He’s standing at a bar in what appears to be a tavern and might be an inn, his lute slung across his back. His fingers hurt like he’s been playing for a long time, and his throat’s a bit sore, so he probably was. There’s a half-empty tankard of ale in his hand. 

And there’s a girl in a long, fine cloak with very pale hair standing in front of him and looking at him like she recognizes him, and he has the vague feeling that he’s seen her before. 

Maybe in a dream. 

“Yes?” he asks, smiling at her politely. She stares back at him. 

“What are you doing here?” she says. Jaskier looks around the tavern. No reason is immediately apparent. 

“You know, I couldn’t tell you,” he says. 

“I thought you were dead,” she says. 

“Oh, well . . . I’m fairly sure I was,” he says, because it occurs to him that he shouldn’t be awake right now, or likely ever again. That’s . . . strange. 

Geralt must be in town. He’ll have to lay low. 

“What?” The girl blinks at him. Jaskier remembers that he’s supposed to be human, even if he’s never been very good at that. 

“Never mind,” he says. “Do I know you?” 

“. . . no,” the girl lies. Jaskier tilts his head. She really does look _familiar_. “Sorry. Forget it.” 

She steps back, makes to move away, and Jaskier’s mind clears, the fog of a dream fading away into a point of clarity. He’s dreamed in Cintra more than once, and he thinks he’s dreamed of this girl. 

Yes. He has. 

“Ah,” he says, eyes widening a bit, though he’s not stupid enough to say her name out loud. He’s vaguely aware that he shouldn’t, at least, though he isn’t quite sure why. Something else from a dream, perhaps. “He finally went and got you, then?” 

“What?” The girl stops; stares back over her shoulder at him. _Cirilla_ stares back over her shoulder at him. Jaskier sets aside his tankard. He isn’t very thirsty right now. 

“Geralt,” he says. “He’s here, obviously.” 

“How do you know that?” Cirilla asks, looking unsettled. Jaskier shrugs. 

“Oh, it’s not hard,” he says. “I always know when Geralt’s around.” 

It’s hard to miss waking up, for one thing. 

“What are you?” Cirilla says warily, drawing in on herself. 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, and doesn’t know how to put it. “Nothing, really. I suppose I . . . used to be his friend.” 

“That’s not an answer,” she says. 

“It really is,” he says. “Where is he? I don’t want to run into him.” 

“Why not?” she asks suspiciously. 

“Because he doesn’t want to run into _me_ , and I’d rather not be looked at the way he looked at me last time again,” Jaskier replies truthfully. “It was upsetting.” 

“How do you know him?” Cirilla doesn’t look any less suspicious. Jaskier supposes that’s fair, since typically someone avoiding a witcher wouldn’t be doing it for the same reasons he is and more likely would be some murderous creature trying to escape his silver sword. 

“Have you ever heard ‘Toss A Coin To Your Witcher’?” Jaskier says. 

“Yes,” she says. 

“I would be the humble bard,” he says, inclining his head to her and tapping a finger against his lute’s case. 

“I heard you,” she says, a little abrupt. “From the street. I recognized your voice.” 

“I’m told it’s a passable one,” Jaskier says. “I’ve also been told it’s like a pie without any filling, of course.” 

“I’ve heard it before,” she says. “In Cintra.” 

“Seems likely,” Jaskier says, since he can’t imagine why the princess of the place would be anywhere else, and he’s certainly dreamed there often enough. It’s odd enough she’s here, in fact. 

Wait. No, not odd. 

He remembers a few more things through the haze of dreaming, and sighs to himself. Well, that’s . . . unfortunate. No wonder Geralt finally went and got her. 

“You were performing, the week before . . .” Cirilla trails off. “I didn’t know you’d made it out.” 

“Was I?” Jaskier tilts his head. Lucky for him that he did make it out, then, considering. It must’ve been a narrow thing. 

“Don’t you know?” She narrows her eyes at him. 

“I’m afraid there’s quite a lot that I don’t know,” he says. He has a vague memory of being in Cintra, yes, but it’s blurred and faded, and he couldn’t say which time it is he’s actually remembering. “If you’ll excuse me, now, I really don’t want to run into Geralt.” 

“If you’re a monster, he’ll find you,” Cirilla says. 

“I am very certain that he has no interest in doing that,” Jaskier assures her. He steps away from the bar, looking for the door. Geralt’s probably not too far from Cirilla, being Geralt, so ideally he’ll be going out the _back_ door, assuming there is one. 

There is, mercifully enough. 

.

.

.

Time to go back to sleep. 

.

.

.

Jaskier dreams, because of course he dreams. Mostly he dreams of music, but there’s a bit of other things. Misadventures, lovers, narrow escapes—all the usual things he dreams about. 

Yennefer, oddly, but only once and only briefly. 

He dreams about the coast, too. 

.

.

.

Jaskier wakes up to the smell of saltwater, soaking wet and bemused about it. He looks around. He’s on a shore, standing hip-deep in very cold water and wearing clothes he doesn’t recognize. His lute and pack are back on the rocky beach, far away from the tide. He can’t imagine what he’s doing here, but that’s not unusual for waking up. He’s woken up stranger places, in fact. 

The waking up itself is still unusual, though. 

He looks around again. There’s no sign of life. If Geralt’s here—which he must be—he’s still some distance away. 

Well, hopefully that’ll give Jaskier enough time to avoid him, then. 

.

.

.

Jaskier is walking down the path away from the beach in salt-crusted clothes, pack and lute slung over his shoulder and still awake. Hopefully he’s picked the right direction to go, but if he hasn’t . . . well, he’s not sure what, if he hasn’t. 

Unfortunately, he hasn’t picked the right direction. 

Geralt steps over the top of the hill ahead, and Jaskier’s chest squeezes painfully at the sight of him. 

Dammit. 

He starts to open his stupid mouth to speak before the other’s even looked his way, because of course his stupid mouth has something to say, and then Geralt yanks Cirilla up beside him and some horrible-looking monsters come running up the hill after them, which—not very convenient for a reunion, that, though perhaps _very_ convenient because maybe Jaskier will still be able to just slip away unseen. Geralt shoves Cirilla and she runs, and he draws his silver sword and falls into a defensive stance. 

Dammit, Jaskier thinks again. The monsters leap on Geralt, and Cirilla runs straight into Jaskier’s chest. 

“Oh!” she gasps. 

“Hello, Your Highness,” Jaskier says, resting a hand on her arm to steady her and resignedly watching Geralt fight a terribly outnumbered fight. He can’t just slip away. Not without knowing the other’s alright. 

“Jaskier!” she blurts. “There’s—” 

“Monsters, yes,” Jaskier says. “You should perhaps keep running.” 

He would himself, maybe, but Geralt is always so _lonely_. Which is a stupid reason not to run, but also, unlike Cirilla, he probably can’t actually die. If the man who created him rejecting him didn’t do it, he can’t imagine how an ordinary monster could. 

Well, it might hurt if they tried, admittedly. 

Hm. 

Maybe running would be the smart idea, yes, Jaskier thinks as one of the horrible things slips past Geralt and barrels towards them. Cirilla screams, and the creature rocks backwards with the force of it. Jaskier yanks her towards him, about to turn and run, and Geralt’s silver sword comes flying through the air and buries itself in the staggered creature’s head. 

Oh, his stupid witcher. 

The monster falls dead at Cirilla’s feet, and its companions tackle Geralt to the ground as he struggles to fight them off with only steel. Cirilla tries to yank his sword out of the beast’s head, but it’s stuck fast. Jaskier tries to help. It’s not particularly effective, especially not with the blade’s handle all slick with black blood and gore. 

“Geralt!” Cirilla cries in a panic. “It’s stuck!” 

_“Run!”_ Geralt shouts at her. “Go to the water!” 

He has a point, Jaskier thinks. 

“You heard the man,” he says, dropping his things to grab her arm, and the two of them flee back towards the rocky beach. At least Cirilla’s smart enough to listen when a witcher tells her to run. Jaskier’s not sure what use water’s going to be, but if Geralt insists . . . 

They run down the beach and straight into the water, and Cirilla gasps as an icy wave hits her in the stomach, the black blood sizzling off their hands and clothes. Jaskier keeps pushing her ahead of him, since of the two of them she’s definitely the more at risk of death. He might get dismembered, but that’s another thing altogether. 

Oh, he really hopes he doesn’t get dismembered. That doesn’t sound fun at _all_. 

“I can’t swim!” she chokes as he tries to push her further, and Jaskier curses. Of course she can’t swim. Of _course_. 

Something snarls behind them. They turn to look, and find two of the monsters pacing the shore just above the tide line. 

“Hell,” Jaskier says. Cirilla nearly gets knocked over by a wave and grabs onto him. 

“Where’s Geralt?” she says. 

“I would love to be able to tell you,” Jaskier says. 

.

.

.

Time passes. The monsters pace the shore. The water is very cold, and Cirilla’s soaked to the bone. Jaskier’s hands are going numb; her lips are turning blue. That can’t be a good sign. 

Geralt does not appear, which is a far worse sign. But Jaskier isn’t dead, so Geralt must still be alive. He’s sure he’d die if Geralt did. 

Nearly sure, anyway. 

“W-we need to move,” Cirilla says through chattering teeth. This is what he gets for coming to the coast this time of year, Jaskier thinks. 

“I’m fairly certain they’re going to follow us,” he says. They have been so far. 

“N-no, because—because of the cold,” she says, which: fair point. 

“Alright,” Jaskier says, and they move. The beasts follow them, unsurprisingly. Dammit. Well, whatever they are apparently doesn’t swim, at least, but they can’t stay in the water forever. “You know, I didn’t really expect to die with a princess. At least, not one your age.” 

“G-Geralt will come,” Cirilla stutters, wrapping her arms tightly around herself. 

“If I die, that means he’s not coming,” Jaskier says. 

“What?” She blinks up at him in confusion. “What do you m-mean?” 

“If I die, he’s already dead,” Jaskier clarifies. “So we really need to figure out how to get you out of here before that happens.” 

“How?” she says. He really wishes Geralt had wanted him to be a little bit more competent when he’d been dreaming him up. Just a little. 

"No idea," he says, looking around. Where's a convenient island when you need one? Or a convenient witcher? 

Really, any sort of help would do. Jaskier's not picky. 

Maybe if he dies they'll be happy eating his body and Cirilla will be able to escape, but that's probably a bit optimistic. For one thing, he's not actually sure he'll leave a body. 

"Jaskier!" Cirilla says in alarm as an aggressive wave hits her and she nearly goes under. Jaskier grabs her arm and they _both_ nearly go down, and the water soaks them both completely. The beasts on the shore gnash their teeth. 

"Fuck," Jaskier mutters. 

This isn't going well. 

.

.

.

Jaskier isn’t made for this kind of thing. 

.

.

.

The beasts pace the shoreline. The wind and water only get colder. Cirilla stumbles in the waves more than once, and Jaskier’s no better. Again, he really regrets not being a bit more competent, or at least being something a bit more useful than nearly-human. 

They might drown, he supposes. Drowning is a possibility. That’s probably a better death than dismemberment. 

Where the _hell_ is Geralt? 

If he’s dead, Jaskier’s going to be very angry. 

“Why w-won’t they j-just _leave_?” Cirilla says hoarsely. She looks like she wants to cry. Jaskier wants to fix this. Jaskier wants to fix this so _badly_. 

Cirilla _needs_ him to fix this. 

He’s supposed to be what _Geralt_ needs, though, and he doesn’t even have a damn weapon anyway; doesn’t have magic or silver or even steel. There’s nothing he can do except help Cirilla keep moving, and there’s still no sign of anyplace safe to go. If Geralt doesn’t survive, they’re not surviving; it’s as simple as that. 

Jaskier’s never actually worried very much about dying the previous times he’s been in dangerous situations, but he’s definitely worried about _Cirilla_ dying. Especially dying alone and helpless, with no one beside her. 

That’s not a good way to go. 

“It's alright,” he says, and it's only partially a lie. "He's still alive." 

"How do you _know_?" Cirilla says. 

"I'm not dead or dreaming," Jaskier says. "So he's alive." 

"What does that mean?" she says. Jaskier debates trying to explain it to her, but then the beasts on the shore still, and turn their heads away from them. 

Geralt is standing on the beach. 

"Oh, thank fuck," Jaskier mutters. Geralt's bloody and covered in black gore, breathing heavily and gripping his side with one hand and his silver sword with the other, but he's alive. 

Now he just has to survive this, Jaskier supposes. 

.

.

.

It’s Geralt, of course. 

.

.

.

Two dead beasts later, Geralt’s swaying on his feet and Jaskier and Cirilla are headed back to the shore. 

“Geralt?” Cirilla asks worriedly. “Are you alright?” 

“Hn,” he says, unhelpfully, and then falls over. 

“Dammit,” Jaskier says as Cirilla runs through the shallows to his side. He follows her. Geralt’s semi-conscious at best, but still alive. Cirilla rolls him onto his back and he hisses in pain. “Where’s his bag?” 

“He dropped it when we were running,” Cirilla says, looking back over her shoulder. “I think it’s . . . it’s a ways away.” 

“Of course it is,” Jaskier mutters. “Find it, please. There’s _something_ in there that’ll get him on his feet.” 

“Right,” she says, and hurries away. It occurs to him to worry that Geralt didn’t get all of the monsters, but since nothing’s actively attacking them right now, he’s going to assume that he did. And if there _are_ any more of them out there, well, they’re not surviving them without Geralt anyway. 

Jaskier sighs, then gets Geralt out of his crumpled position to lay him on his back. He’s still breathing heavily, and his eyes are closed. Jaskier isn’t sure what to do, but remembers the way the black gore had disappeared in the water and decides cleaning it off him can’t hurt. Who knows what might be in the stuff. 

It definitely comes off easier than monster blood usually does, at least. 

“This is not exactly how I would’ve pictured seeing you again,” he says as he rinses the gore off the other’s face. Geralt says nothing, because of course he says nothing, though he stirs slightly at the touch of the water. Jaskier just hopes he isn’t going to wake up and yell at him again, at this point. 

That’s a bit pathetic of him, maybe, but he can’t help thinking it all the same. Geralt’s rejected him enough for one lifetime, thanks very much. 

Cirilla comes back with Geralt’s bag in hand, and Jaskier sorts through it for the appropriate potion. He’s seen Geralt drink the damn things enough times, but even if he hadn’t, he knows enough about Geralt to know his potions, and he finds the right one soon enough. 

Now he just needs to make sure the other drinks it. 

“Geralt,” he says, shaking his shoulder. Geralt doesn’t stir. 

“Are you sure that’ll help?” Cirilla asks nervously. 

“As much as these damn things ever do, at least,” Jaskier says. They’re not exactly gentle, for one thing, much less healthy. He gets an arm underneath Geralt’s head and props him up a bit so he can pour the potion in the other’s mouth, and hopes he’ll swallow it. 

Geralt swallows, mercifully, but also chokes. Jaskier sighs in relief and helps him sit up. 

“There we go,” he says. “Much better.” 

_“Fuck,”_ Geralt rasps, half-gagging on the potion. 

“Don’t throw that up,” Jaskier warns him. “It’s the only one I found.” 

“Geralt?” Cirilla says. “Are you alright?” 

“Fine,” Geralt says gruffly, then gives Jaskier a strange, unreadable look. “How did you know which potion to give me?” 

“What, was it a secret?” Jaskier replies with a shrug. Cirilla throws her arms around Geralt in relief, which is a strange sight, and made stranger when Geralt puts an arm around her in return. There’s a new one, Jaskier thinks. 

“What are you doing here?” Geralt asks. Jaskier shrugs again. He still has no idea. 

“Feeding you potions, apparently,” he says. “Did you kill all those monsters? Should we be worried?” 

“I killed them all,” Geralt says, wiping at his mouth. “But we should get out of the area before dark.” 

“Yes, let’s do that,” Jaskier agrees. 

.

.

.

Geralt said “we”, so Jaskier follows him. 

It’s really that simple. 

.

.

.

Cirilla is sleeping under a tree at the edge of their tiny clearing, and Geralt is sharpening his swords by the campfire. Jaskier is on the other side of the fire, absently tuning his lute but mostly waiting for Geralt to say something. “Something” does not appear to be forthcoming. 

They’ve done this a thousand times, but never in silence. Jaskier had always had something to say and Geralt had always hated it, but not as much as he’d hated the silence. Jaskier had never completely understood that, but he’d known it to be a fact all the same. 

Geralt wants lots of things he doesn’t know how to have, after all. 

“So . . . how’s fatherhood?” Jaskier asks eventually, because he is what he is and what he is can only be quiet for so long. Geralt shoots him an irritated look, and it’s just like old times. Assuming one forgets the way that “old times” ended, anyway. 

“I’m not her father,” Geralt says. 

“Well you’re certainly not going to _marry_ her,” Jaskier snorts. “What are you doing with her if you’re not raising her? There’s not exactly a palace for her to go back to.” 

“I’m protecting her,” Geralt says. “She needs taken care of.” 

“And that strikes you as unrelated to raising her?” Jaskier says, a bit pityingly. Geralt glares at him. 

“It isn’t like that,” he says. 

“Isn’t it?” Jaskier says. Geralt really is the worst at taking what he wants. Or even just _having_ what he wants. “You didn’t make a wish this time. And she’s hardly going to hold someone else’s war against you.” 

“You don’t know anything about it,” Geralt says tersely, his expression darkening. Jaskier sighs. He knows just about _everything_ about Geralt, actually. 

But Geralt wants him to be human, so he doesn’t say that. 

“Are you going to yell at me again?” he says. “I realize you aren’t very good at self-soothing techniques, but I don’t particularly recommend that one. For one thing, you’d probably wake Cirilla.” 

“Ciri,” Geralt says, like that even _remotely_ addresses anything Jaskier just said. Jaskier represses another sigh and goes back to his lute. If Geralt doesn’t want to talk to him, well . . . then that’s what Geralt wants, he supposes. 

He’ll leave in the morning and go back to dreaming. It’ll be better for them both. 

.

.

.

It’s a solid plan, except they don’t make it to morning. 

.

.

.

_“Jaskier,”_ Geralt hisses in the dark, and Jaskier’s eyes snap open. He hears Ciri whimper in fear and holds himself very still. 

“Geralt,” he says. Something cracks in the trees. In the moonlight, he sees Geralt, low to the ground and crouched over Ciri with a hand on the hilt of his silver sword. 

There’s something out there. 

“I thought you killed them all,” he says, keeping his voice as low as he can. 

“They come in packs,” Geralt bites off. “Little ones splinter off from the main group sometimes.” 

“Of course they do,” Jaskier mutters. The closest water is a creek narrow enough that the creatures from this afternoon could step right over it. He doubts it’s going to be much help. 

“They don’t climb well,” Geralt says. “If you can get up a tree that’s too big for them to knock over . . .” 

“What’s ‘too big’?” Jaskier asks, already scanning the trees around their tiny clearing and hoping he’s not going to see any monsters in them. Then again, that’s probably just the lack of night vision. 

“Depends on how big _they_ are,” Geralt says. 

“Well, that’s very unhelpful, Geralt, thank you.” 

“They’ll attack all at once,” Geralt says, his own eyes bled black and fixed on the darkness. “When they do, run to the trees.” 

“They’re too tall,” Ciri whispers. “I can’t reach the branches of the big ones.” 

Geralt curses. Jaskier looks at the trees again. Ciri’s right, most likely. She might be able to climb the trunks of some of them, but it won’t be quick. 

“It’s fine,” he says. “I’ll give her a boost.” 

“You’ll die,” Geralt says flatly. 

“Oh, like I’ve never done _that_ before,” Jaskier huffs. Geralt opens his mouth, presumably to argue, and monsters pour into the clearing all around them. Ciri screams, but unfortunately not in the destructive way. Geralt jerks to his feet, sword already flashing, and Jaskier grabs Ciri by the arm and they throw themselves at the nearest tree. He gives her a boost, she looks back down at him desperately, and one of the beasts lands on his back. 

It hurts. 

Ciri _screams_. 

.

.

.

Jaskier wakes up to the sound of sobbing, vaguely aware that he’s lying in a puddle and something heavy and limp is crushing him. He considers opening his eyes, but everything hurts too badly for him to even want to try. 

“Geralt,” Ciri sobs. “Geralt!” 

Jaskier opens his eyes. Geralt and Ciri are standing in the middle of the moonlit clearing surrounded by dead monsters, clutching at each other and not looking at him. Jaskier tries to get up, but it doesn’t work. Whatever’s on top of him is—

Another dead monster, actually, so that’s a bit horrifying. 

“Oh, _ugh_ ,” he says feelingly, and Geralt and Ciri’s faces snap towards him. “A little help here?” 

“Jaskier?” Ciri says shakily. “You’re—but you’re—” 

“Being crushed, mostly,” Jaskier says, attempting to squirm his way out from under the monster’s corpse without much success. It’s actually very painful to try, in fact. 

“You’re dead,” Geralt says, completely without infliction, and Jaskier blinks at him, then looks down at himself. 

The puddle is blood, it turns out, and his stomach is a bit . . . a mess, let’s say. 

“Ah,” Jaskier says resignedly. “This again.” 

It’s worse than the bar fight incident, for certain. He’d woken up more or less healed after that. This is a bit more on the gory side. 

“Can you please get this thing off me so I can make sure I haven’t lost any important internal organs?” he says, attempting to shove at the monster’s corpse as gingerly as possible. He’s not entirely sure he hasn’t, considering. 

Ciri takes a step forward. Geralt moves in front of her. 

“You’re dead,” he repeats, and Jaskier sighs. 

“I’m not, clearly,” he says. “Are you just going to leave me down here?” 

“It . . . it sounds like him,” Ciri says. 

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Geralt says. He’s holding the silver sword, Jaskier can’t help but notice. He’s never actually been sure if silver could kill him or not. It’s never come up. 

“Is he a doppelganger?” Ciri asks. 

“Do I want to know what that is?” Jaskier asks, already assuming that the answer is “no”. Geralt steps forward and presses the flat of his bloodstained blade to his cheek, which—“Oh, that _cannot_ be sanitary.” 

“Not a doppelganger,” Geralt says brusquely. Jaskier leans away from his very sharp sword, eyeing it warily. Still possible it could kill him. Possibly. 

“Geralt,” he says. “I’d really prefer you not behead me, or whatever it is you’re thinking about doing right now. I don’t think I’d like that very much.” 

He’s been so _good_ about not being something Geralt would need to kill, after all. He’d hate to break the streak now. 

“He can’t be human,” Ciri says. 

“I don’t recall ever saying I was,” Jaskier says. 

“What did you do with Jaskier?” Geralt asks. 

“Nothing,” Jaskier says, not sure how to feel about the apparent concern. Not that Geralt really looks “concerned” so much as “murderous”. “I _am_ Jaskier.” 

“. . . you said you were Geralt’s friend,” Ciri says slowly, stepping up beside Geralt and looking down at him. “Before, in the tavern. Was that you?” 

“Yes.” Jaskier keeps eyeing the silver sword. Geralt is still holding it awfully close to his throat. “I reiterate: I’m Jaskier. The exact same man I was in Posada, and Cintra, and everywhere else we’ve been together.” 

Or the exact same _thing_ , perhaps. But semantics. 

Geralt just keeps looking at him with that dangerous expression and doesn’t move his sword. Jaskier is fairly certain if he swallowed too hard he’d cut himself. 

“I _am_ your friend, Geralt,” he says. “Despite your preferences to the contrary.” 

There’s nothing else he can be but Geralt’s friend, really, when all’s said and done. It’s what he was made for, after all. 

Even if Geralt doesn’t realize that himself. 

“Jaskier is human,” Geralt says. 

“I tried to be,” Jaskier says, a little painfully. His stomach doesn’t hurt so much anymore, at least. He assumes that means it’s healing up, or possibly just hopes. He can’t exactly tilt his head to check. 

“I don’t understand,” Ciri says. “Are you human or not?” 

“I don’t know,” Jaskier says. “I was supposed to be what Geralt wanted.” 

“What does _that_ mean?” Ciri asks. Geralt doesn’t say anything. He keeps staring down at him, and he still doesn’t move his sword. Seeing as Jaskier hasn’t killed or hurt anyone, he’s a bit concerned by that. 

Well, he supposes Geralt thinks he’s killed _himself_ , doesn’t he. 

“What I said,” Jaskier says anyway. “He needed someone like me, so I happened.” 

“That’s not an answer,” Geralt says, and Jaskier shrugs helplessly. 

“You’re lonely, Geralt,” he says. “And humans are terrible to you. You needed someone between you and them. Someone soft and simple who you’d never have to kill.” 

Geralt’s eyes flash. Jaskier supposes that was a bit too honest, wasn’t it. 

Still. What, he’s going to lie _now_? 

“Geralt . . .” Ciri says, looking up at him. “He knew you were in town without seeing you. He was trying to avoid you.” 

Geralt’s eyes narrow. Jaskier sighs. Well, it was nice having a head while he had it. 

“In my defense, the last time I’d seen you you’d been telling me in excruciating detail how badly you wanted me out of your life,” he says. “I wasn’t exactly expecting a happy reunion.” 

“Or you thought I’d realize what you were and kill you,” Geralt says, and Jaskier rolls his eyes. 

“Just for the record, it is _so_ like you to kill something you want,” he says. “Really, I don’t know anyone else who’s so eager to do it.” 

“Geralt . . .” Ciri says, and Geralt’s face twists. Jaskier _sees_ him decide to kill him. He’s not willing to take a chance. Not with Ciri around. 

It’s admirable, really, except for how badly it’s about to end for Jaskier. 

“Geralt—” he tries, because he can’t not _try_ to talk him out of it, and Geralt stabs him through the throat. Ciri chokes, recoiling. Jaskier gags on the blade and his own blood. 

It _hurts_. 

Geralt just had to make him a thing that could feel pain, didn’t he. 

Jaskier grabs at the blade reflexively, but just slices his hands. Geralt _twists_. 

It stops hurting quite as much after that, which Jaskier supposes is merciful, except for the fact that he can’t feel anything below the neck. 

Then he dies, which, oddly, doesn’t hurt at all. 

.

.

.

Jaskier wakes up in a strange bed with a beautiful woman leaning over him, which is admittedly not an unfamiliar situation. Even the woman isn’t unfamiliar, in fact. 

“Hm,” Yennefer says. 

“Oh,” Jaskier says, then lifts a hand to his throat, surprised to find it intact. It’s not even bloody. “Oh, _rude_!” 

“Rude?” She tilts her head. 

“Geralt killed me!” Jaskier says indignantly. He’s worked so hard to never be something Geralt would need to kill, and the bastard just went ahead and did it anyway! 

“Well, I suppose that explains how you got in here,” Yennefer says. 

“Where _is_ here?” Jaskier asks warily, glancing around the very finely decorated room. He’s been in more lavish bedrooms, but not many. 

“Nowhere, really,” Yennefer says with a shrug. “It’s an illusion. If he killed you, why aren’t you dead?” 

“I don’t know,” Jaskier says. “Logically if anyone was going to be able to do it, it would’ve been him.” 

He sits up and looks down at himself. His body is intact, and he’s wearing an outfit he’s never seen before. It’s a nice outfit, just he really doesn’t know where it came from. 

“Hm,” he says, running a hand down the admittedly fine brocade on his chest. Still . . . “You know, I’m getting very tired of waking up in strange clothes. It’s always a bit disconcerting.” 

“ _Are_ you awake?” Yennefer asks, tilting her head, and Jaskier blinks. 

“Oh,” he says, touching his face in surprise and then looking around again. “Oh! I am! Where’s Geralt?” 

“Not here,” she says, and he frowns at her. 

“He has to be,” he says. “I’m only ever awake when he’s around.” 

“You really think I’d be anywhere near that man if I could help it?” Yennefer snorts. 

“You’re still angry about the wish thing?” Jaskier says. 

“I’m not angry,” she lies. “I just have no interest in living my life based around someone else’s desires.” 

“Is it really that different from what you would’ve done if he hadn’t wished it, though?” Jaskier says. 

“I’ll never know, will I,” she says darkly. “I’ll never know how I would’ve felt about him if he hadn’t made that wish.” 

“Yennefer, I _am_ a wish,” Jaskier says, swinging his legs off the side of the bed. “You’re not getting any sympathy from me.” 

“And that doesn’t bother you?” she says. 

“No.” Jaskier looks around the room. “I don’t suppose my things came with me, did they?” 

“By the vanity,” she says, tilting her head in that direction. “Jaskier. He _killed_ you. Why are you defending him?” 

“Well . . . I suppose he still needs me,” Jaskier says, because he can’t imagine any other reason he’d still be alive. Showing up wide awake on Yennefer’s doorstep is admittedly not something he understands, but he’s not looking the gift horse in the mouth. “So I can’t do anything else.” 

“We are very different people,” Yennefer says. 

“Well, yes, but that’s not exactly news,” Jaskier says. He heads over to the vanity, and yes, his pack and his lute are both sitting beside it, looking none the worse for wear. He picks them up and checks his lute, relieved to find it entirely undamaged. “Are you _sure_ he’s not around?” 

“Very,” she confirms. 

“Hm,” he says again. 

.

.

.

Geralt really isn’t around, which is . . . very strange, honestly. Jaskier’s not sure how to find him now, or if he should even try. Geralt might just kill him again, after all, and since he doesn’t know what brought him back, he doesn’t know if it’ll do it again. 

He wonders if Geralt ever realized he was really him, or if the other still thinks he just killed a monster. 

Presumably the monster thing, he supposes. 

Hm. 

He wonders if he should lie to Geralt when he sees him again and pretend like nothing happened; let Geralt continue to think he’d killed some dangerous beastie that’d been trying to trick him and Ciri with a familiar face. 

That’s assuming he’ll ever see him again, he supposes, but . . . 

Well. He always sees Geralt again, doesn’t he. 

.

.

.

Of course he does. 

.

.

.

And, of course, he does. 

.

.

.

It’s very strange being awake all the time, but Jaskier is getting used to it. He hasn’t dreamed in quite a while now. It’s odd, but not alarming, so he tries not to worry about it. It’s just something different, not something bad. 

It does give him an awful lot of time to think, though. 

Admittedly he’s never done much of that. He’s never really needed to; he knew what he needed to know, and he knew what he needed to do, and everything else was just a passing entertainment until Geralt needed something. 

Now “everything else” is his _life_. 

Bit ironic, really, that Geralt killing him gave him one of those. 

It does mean he gets taken by surprise, though, which is something that’s never really happened before. But one day he’s in a market, deeply pondering why he cares about the difference between two different apples, and then . . . 

“Jaskier!” 

He . . . pauses, and sets down the apples, and turns his head. 

It’s Ciri. She’s a little taller and a little more road-worn, her hair all pulled back out of her face and braided over her shoulder, and he wonders how long it’s been since he saw her. She’s wearing a silver knife, so . . . possibly a fairly long time. 

“Ciri,” he says, and she takes a wary step towards him. 

“Are you really . . .” she starts, and Jaskier shrugs. 

“I was ‘really’ last time,” he says. “If you’re going to kill me again, perhaps don’t do it in the middle of town, though.” 

She pales. He pays the stallkeeper and takes an apple, then walks over to Ciri. 

“Is Geralt here?” he asks. 

“You should know, shouldn’t you?” she says. 

“Oddly, I don’t.” Jaskier takes a bite of apple. Might as well. “Things have been a bit different for me lately.” 

“What does that mean?” she says. He shrugs. 

“They’ve just been different,” he says. “Have you seen Yennefer?” 

“Who?” Ciri blinks at him. 

“Never mind.” Jaskier takes another bite. He thinks of several small-talk things to say, but is fairly certain they’ll all be interpreted the wrong way, and also fairly certain he should be leaving before Geralt shows up. Even if Geralt _doesn’t_ immediately kill him again, he’s hardly going to be happy to see him. He hasn’t forgotten the mountain. 

There is one thing he’s wondering a bit, though. 

“ _Aren’t_ you going to kill me again?” he asks. “Seems like the thing to do, doesn’t it?” 

“It’s not going to do any good if I try, is it?” Ciri says, a little hesitantly. Her hand’s very close to that silver knife, despite her words. Jaskier shrugs. 

“I mean, maybe,” he says. “I’ve died a couple times now. I might be out of lives.” 

“What _are_ you?” she says. “Really.” 

“I’m Geralt’s friend,” Jaskier says. It’s the only answer that’s really true. Ciri frowns, clearly not accepting it. 

“No,” she says. “ _What_ are you.” 

“I’m Geralt’s friend,” Jaskier repeats. He supposes the answer must be frustrating, but again, it’s the only one that’s really true. “He needed me, so I happened. There’s nothing else to it.” 

“What do you mean ‘needed’?” Ciri asks slowly. “Why would he need a bard?” 

“For the company? The noise? To be an ambassador between himself and humanity?” Jaskier shrugs again. “Maybe to make sure he actually gets paid more than once in a blue moon, he’s _terrible_ at that. You have no idea how much work I’ve put into getting that man paid over the years, it’s ridiculous. And half the time he just gives it to an elf or something.” 

“You don’t make any sense,” Ciri says. 

“Sorry,” Jaskier says, taking another bite of his apple. Everything about him makes perfect sense, in his opinion. You just have to understand Geralt. 

Admittedly, not a lot of people understand Geralt. 

“He’s going to kill you if you don’t tell him the truth,” Ciri says. 

“He already did,” Jaskier reminds her. “It hurt, for the record.” 

“You killed his friend,” she says. 

“I _am_ his friend,” Jaskier says. “Just because he mistook me for a real person for a couple decades doesn’t mean I ever was one.” 

“He’d have known,” Ciri says, her fingers just brushing the hilt of her knife. 

“Well, he didn’t,” Jaskier says. Geralt had _wanted_ him to be real, he supposes. 

Geralt wished for Yennefer, after all. It’s not really a stretch that he would’ve been wishing before he met her. 

But again, understanding that would require understanding Geralt, and he _does_ so often do his best not to be understood. 

“You’re a liar,” Ciri says, and then her eyes flick behind him and Jaskier sees the look in them and just grimaces. 

Dammit. 

“Hello, Geralt,” he says resignedly, folding his arms. “Do you want to tell me to fuck off or do you just want to stab me again?” 

“What are you doing here?” Geralt says. Jaskier looks back over his shoulder at him. Geralt’s just standing there in all his armor, looking grim. And tired, a bit. He must not be sleeping right again. 

“Nothing,” Jaskier says, because for once he actually knows the answer to that question. “Just passing through. Yennefer doesn’t say hello, by the way.” 

Alright, that was a little mean. Forgive him, he’s been stewing. 

“What did you do?” Geralt says, his jaw tightening. 

“Nothing. Again,” Jaskier replies with a sigh. He doesn’t know how to convince Geralt he’s not something sinister. “I woke up at her place after you killed me. We disagreed about you and went our separate ways, as usual. It’s _adorable_ that you think I could actually do anything to that woman before she blew me up, though. I think I’m flattered.” 

“Who’s Yennefer?” Ciri asks. 

“Later,” Geralt says. He’s just looking at Jaskier. Not holding a weapon, at least, but certainly not acting happy to see him. Not that he ever has. Ever. Jaskier’s really not that demanding a creature, but it would’ve been nice to be appreciated once or twice over the years. 

Or, again, _ever_. 

“You’re such an idiot,” Jaskier says irritably. “I’m your _friend_. What else do I need to be?” 

“I don’t have friends,” Geralt says. 

“Oh, but you do, Geralt,” Jaskier says, turning towards him and giving him a wry look. “You have me, your very best friend in the whole wide world.” 

Geralt’s expression darkens. Jaskier expects stabbed, honestly. The other looks awfully close to doing it, at least. 

“You could try killing me again, if you like,” Jaskier says. “Maybe steel will work better than silver did?” 

Geralt draws his sword, and Jaskier sighs as a few people in the street scuttle away in alarm. Of course, he thinks resignedly, taking a last bite of apple and tossing the core aside. The idiot will be getting himself run out of town any minute now. 

“Tell me what you did with him,” Geralt says flatly. 

“Geralt . . .” Ciri trails off. 

“You can keep asking, but the answer isn’t going to change,” Jaskier says, putting his hands on his hips and tapping a foot irritably. “Did you _really_ think some ordinary human just decided you were the most fascinating person on the continent and based their whole life around you, or . . . what, exactly? Please, Geralt, explain me to myself.” 

Geralt glares at him, tightening his grip on his sword. He doesn’t say a word, and Jaskier throws his hands up in the air. 

“I’m not even any older!” he says in exasperation. “Look at me! Don’t I look exactly the same as I did in Posada? Haven’t I always looked exactly the same as I did in Posada?” 

“You’re not convincing,” Geralt says, voice just as flat as before. 

“You _need me_ ,” Jaskier shoots back, and knows it’s the truth. No matter how many times Geralt kills him, that’s not going to change. 

He’ll come back again, as long as Geralt needs him. That’s what he’s for, after all. 

It’d be nice if Geralt returned the sentiment a bit. 

.

.

.

Geralt kills him right there, of course, the idiot, and probably gets run out of town or thrown in a cell or who knows what after. 

Honestly. Jaskier doesn’t know _what_ he’s going to do with this man. 

.

.

.

Jaskier wakes up to the scent of incense and a trio of wary-looking girls who are a bit young for his taste. He’s lying on a bed in a plain stone room with several other beds in it, and he doesn’t recognize the place whatsoever. 

“Hm,” he says. He touches his stomach where Geralt’s blade slid in, and finds no injury or damage. He looks down at himself, and he’s wearing clothes he doesn’t recognize again. 

“Yennefer?” he guesses, tilting his head back, and she steps into view, looking dubious. 

“You shouldn’t be able to get in here,” she says. 

“To be fair, I didn’t exactly walk in the front door,” Jaskier says, pushing himself upright. The girls step back, eyeing him suspiciously. It’s practically Geralt and Ciri all over again. “At least, I assume I didn’t.” 

“If you did, you went unnoticed by more mages than you’ve seen in your life,” Yennefer says. She holds out his pack and his lute, her expression dry. 

“Thank you,” Jaskier says. He gets up off the bed and accepts them, then smiles pleasantly at the girls, giving them a little bow with a bit of flourish to it. “Don’t mind me. I am but a humble bard.” 

“Then how the hell did you get in here?” one of the girls says. 

“Couldn’t tell you,” Jaskier says. “Yennefer, am I going to get killed again if I run into any of those mages?” 

“I’ll take you,” she sighs, shaking her head. “Are you even awake right now?” 

“Oddly, yes,” Jaskier says, hoisting his pack up onto his shoulder. “Have been since the last time you saw me. Fairly sure that’s the longest I’ve _ever_ been awake, in fact.” 

“And how’d you die this time?” she asks. 

“Two guesses,” Jaskier says, holding up two fingers. Yennefer gives him a dubious look. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. He thinks I’m a monster.” 

“Have you tried telling him you’re not?” 

“No, I decided to lean into it,” Jaskier replies sarcastically. “I’m having such a good time getting repeatedly murdered by my best friend, after all, hate to miss an opportunity for more of it.” 

“He’s not your friend,” Yennefer says. “He created you for something selfish and he killed you the moment you turned out to be something different. Twice.” 

“I mean, if you want to get technical about it,” Jaskier says, making a face. Anything would sound bad if you put it _that_ way. 

“If I want to be literal about it, you mean,” Yennefer says. Jaskier makes a face again. 

"I just need to convince him I'm not some monster or trick," he says. "That's all." 

"And how are you going to do that?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at him. 

". . . I'm working on it," Jaskier says. 

.

.

.

Jaskier could, arguably, just avoid Geralt for the next couple centuries, or however long it takes the other to get himself killed. It's probably achievable. He doesn't even need to be around him to be awake anymore, so really there's no reason to go seeking him out. 

Except he still can't help feeling that Geralt _needs him_ , and how can he just ignore that? If Geralt didn't need him, one of those deaths would've taken, he's sure. 

Hell, if Geralt didn't need him, he might've just died from that. 

He'll still probably live a lot longer if he avoids the man, mind. He doesn't want to, though. 

Doesn't want to avoid him, he means—Jaskier very much wants to live. Living is an excellent use of his time, and much better than the alternatives. He doesn't really remember what things were like before Posada, but he knows he doesn't want to go back to them. 

He has no idea how to convince Geralt that he's the same man he's been all along, unfortunately, aside from flat-out lying. He doesn't _want_ to lie. He's let Geralt make misassumptions before, yes, but he's never lied to him. Not about anything _important_. 

It's frustrating. Geralt needs him but doesn't trust him, is probably still angry about Yennefer, is off doing gods knows what, is . . . 

Jaskier doesn't know what he is, actually because he hasn't seen him in a while. That's a strange feeling, when Geralt used to be his whole _life_. He was only ever really awake when the other was around, after all. 

He's still not sure why he's awake now, honestly, but it certainly does give a man time to think. 

.

.

.

Jaskier doesn't avoid Geralt, but he isn't ready to look for him yet either. There's too much in his head, too much to sort out and think about. 

So of course Geralt finds _him_. 

The bastard. 

"Oh, come _on_ ," Jaskier says the moment he spies the other coming towards him through a crowd. He considers running, but the crowd that parts for a witcher is not going to do the same for a bard, and anyway, Geralt is already practically on top of him and a much better runner. 

Geralt grabs his arm. Jaskier thinks about lying. Geralt probably even _wants_ him to lie. 

He thinks about it, but . . . 

"Is it him?" Ciri asks as she catches up, appearing behind Geralt breathless and wide-eyed. Geralt just stares at Jaskier's face, looking for gods know what. He doesn't let go of his arm. 

"It's always me, in fact," Jaskier snipes. "Unless you've been collecting other friends?" 

"It's not him," Geralt says, his expression hardening. Jaskier can't deal with this man right now. Possibly ever. 

"How would you even know, Geralt?" he snaps, trying to tug free of Geralt's iron grip. It doesn't work. "You couldn't pick me out of a crowd of _two_." 

"Oh," Ciri says. 

"Are either of you even listening to me?" Jaskier demands, stomping a foot angrily. It's childish, but so what? So is ignoring him! 

"What do we do?" Ciri says, and Geralt starts dragging him down the street. Jaskier makes an offended noise. 

"For gods' sake, Geralt, you already tried silver and steel, I don't know what else you're planning," he says in exasperation. It better not be fire. He has no interest in burning to death. 

It's probably fire. 

_Ugh._

"Geralt!" he snaps. Geralt doesn't answer him; just keeps dragging him along. Jaskier digs his heels in, to literally no avail. It's very annoying. "You are _impossible_!" 

"Where are we going?" Ciri asks, hurrying to keep up. Geralt is walking like a man on a mission and Jaskier's already nearly tripped twice. Geralt doesn’t stop or slow down, and he doesn’t answer her. Well, maybe he’s at least going to be smart enough to kill him in an alley somewhere this time, Jaskier thinks. Not that that’d be any better for _him_ , but at least Geralt might not get run out of town or arrested. Maybe the man can learn. 

Probably not, considering it’s Geralt. Still, hope springs eternal and all. 

_“Geralt,”_ Jaskier says in frustration. Geralt doesn’t even look at him, the bastard. “You are the worst! You’re a terrible friend, you know that?! After all I’ve done for you, too! And you haven’t been sleeping again, have you!” 

“He hasn’t,” Ciri says. 

“I swear, if this ends up in another djinn situation, I’m leaving you to get yourself magicked,” Jaskier threatens. Hell, Geralt makes enough stupid decisions on a proper night’s sleep. “Geralt! _Look_ at me, dammit!” 

Geralt doesn’t look at him. Jaskier _fumes_ , clawing at the other’s wrist with his free hand. Geralt’s grip stays just as inescapable. 

“I wasn’t even bothering you!” Jaskier says. “You came and found _me_!” 

“It wasn’t hard,” Ciri says. “They were talking about you in the last town.” 

“Of course they were, I’m marvelous,” Jaskier says, then—“Wait, you actually _did_ come and find me?! What, just to kill me again?!” 

“No,” Ciri says. “We’re looking for the real Jaskier.” 

“I _am_ the real Jaskier!” Jaskier says indignantly. Then he actually registers what she’s said, and blinks at the back of Geralt’s head. “You’re looking for me?” 

“We’re looking for Jaskier,” Ciri says. Jaskier scowls and kicks one of Geralt’s ankles. 

“You wanted me gone!” he says. “So I gave you what you wanted, like I always do! What are you doing looking for me _now_?!” 

Geralt, again, doesn’t answer or look back; just keeps dragging him along. He probably _is_ going to set him on fire, Jaskier thinks. For fuck’s sake. 

“Why won’t you tell us what you did with him?” Ciri says, frowning at him. 

“Because I didn’t do anything with him!” Jaskier says. “I _am_ him! You’re the ones who keep stabbing me! And then I end up on Yennefer’s doorstep and she insults my life choices!” 

“What does Yennefer have to do with anything?” Ciri asks, her frown deepening. 

“I don’t know!” Jaskier says. “She isn’t stabbing me, though, I can tell you that!” 

“Geralt . . .” Ciri looks at Geralt. He still doesn’t look back or speak, so at least it’s not just him, Jaskier thinks. He kicks the other’s ankle again and Geralt tightens his grip on his arm. 

“You are the _worst_ ,” Jaskier seethes. “The absolute worst!” 

Geralt keeps ignoring him, and keeps dragging him along. Jaskier complains, loudly, because it’s about all he can do. Ciri follows them, looking wary and worried, and no one on the street pays them any particular mind. 

How is Jaskier supposed to prove he is who he is, anyway? If he’d known it was going to be such a problem he’d have told Geralt he wasn’t human years ago, but it’s hardly fair that he’s the one suffering for Geralt’s misassumptions _now_ , dammit. He didn’t do anything wrong, he was just trying to be what the other _wanted_. 

Apparently Geralt wants something very specific, though, and Jaskier’s not actually it. 

That’s not fair. He’s done nothing but be what Geralt wants and needs, lived his whole _life_ following the other around and quite literally singing his praises, never left no matter how Geralt acted, not until Geralt sent him away himself, and now Geralt’s going to treat him like a monster? Just for _existing_ wrong? 

Geralt doesn’t do that to anyone else. Everyone else who isn’t the right kind of person or creature gets a chance, or mercy, or even his protection. Jaskier gets his throat cut and stabbed in the stomach and probably set on fire. 

How is he supposed to feel about that, exactly? 

“Geralt,” he says in frustration. “I’m your _friend_.” 

“I don’t have friends,” Geralt says icily. Jaskier feels like he’s beating his head against a brick wall. Or a frozen one, maybe. 

“Then who are you looking for, exactly?” he says. “An acquaintance?” 

Geralt stops, and turns on him. His eyes are _burning_. Jaskier might be afraid, actually, except he doesn’t think he actually can be afraid of Geralt. 

Geralt hadn’t wanted someone who’d be afraid of him. Geralt had wanted someone who’d never need killed and never fear him and never, ever leave. 

Jaskier has no idea how to actually _explain_ that to him, though. 

“You needed me,” he says as calmly as he can. “So I happened. That’s all. There’s no trick or trap or lie to it. I didn’t even hurt anyone. I’ve never hurt a thing in my life, in fact, except perhaps some people’s marriages and the occasional mosquito.” 

“You hurt Jaskier,” Geralt says tightly, his jaw clenching. It’s almost touching, actually. Jaskier really wouldn’t have expected him to care. 

Would’ve been nice to hear it any other time in their relationship, mind. 

“You make it _so_ hard to be your friend,” he says wearily, just looking at the other. Geralt stiffens, which is impressive. Jaskier wouldn’t have thought he could get any more tense than he already was, but no, no, he found a way. How like Geralt, really. 

“Shut up,” Geralt says. 

“Why? Going to stab me again if I don’t?” Jaskier shoots back. “I’m what you were looking for. I’ve _always_ been what you were looking for. Maybe just accept it for once in your life.” 

“You’re lying,” Geralt says. Jaskier glares at him, drawing himself up. 

“My whole life, Geralt!” he shouts. “Twenty years! Everything I did, I did it for you! I kept people from running you out of town, I improved your reputation, I got you _paid_! And all you care about are the times you got yourself in trouble when I happened to be nearby and whether or not I’m _human_!” 

There’s some irony in there, probably. 

Geralt says nothing, but his eyes keep burning. Jaskier kind of wants to kick him again. He almost does. 

“You’re terrible,” he says instead, clenching his fists. “I just want to be what you need someone to be. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. How is that not good enough for you?” 

“You’re not Jaskier,” Geralt says, his voice flat. Jaskier could fucking _punch_ something, he’s so frustrated. How is he supposed to prove this? What can he possibly say that Geralt would believe? 

“I am,” he says roughly, yanking at his arm to, again, no avail. “I am, I am, I _am_! I’ve been Jaskier from the first moment you needed me! There’s never been another Jaskier! It’s always been me!” 

“Stop lying to me!” Geralt hisses, tightening his grip on him and yanking him in close. Jaskier really _can’t_ be afraid of him, but if he could, well . . . 

“I’m not lying,” he says tightly, grabbing the other’s wrist and gripping it as hard as he can. It’s probably not hard enough to matter, but he does it anyway. “I don’t lie to you.” 

Geralt shoves him. Jaskier staggers back and lands on his ass in the street. 

“Geralt!” Ciri says. Jaskier doesn’t know what to do. Geralt’s not convinced by anything he says or does, so what _can_ he do? 

“Asshole,” he says, because he never can shut up, and Geralt glares down at him and draws his sword. “Oh, yes, good, why don’t you hurt me just for the hell of it again, I know how much you love to do _that_.” 

“Geralt!” Ciri grabs his arm. “We already know it’s not going to kill him for good.” 

“Third time’s the charm,” Geralt growls. 

Jaskier thinks he’s going to fucking _cry_. He just wants to be what he’s supposed to be. He just wants to do what he’s supposed to do. 

He just wants . . . 

What does he want, anyway, if Geralt doesn’t want _him_? 

.

.

.

“Why do I keep waking up with you, anyway?” Jaskier asks as he’s looking at the roof of a tent that he is one thousand percent sure is Yennefer’s before he’s even looked around. He’s in a very nice bed. He always seems to wake up in a bed. 

“Why do you keep letting him kill you?” Yennefer says, leaning into his line of sight. She looks irritated. He supposes he doesn’t blame her; he is an uninvited guest, and all. 

“I can’t actually stop him, you realize,” Jaskier says. “He doesn’t believe me, and I’m not, you know . . . I don’t have any strength or magic or anything. He wanted someone who wouldn’t be dangerous. Someone he’d never be forced to kill. Ironically.” 

“You’re dangerous,” Yennefer says. “Half the continent knows your opinion of that man and nothing else about him.” 

“Yes, but I love him,” Jaskier says. “Nothing dangerous about that.” 

“Oh, that’s plenty damn dangerous, bard,” Yennefer snorts. 

“He’s my friend,” Jaskier says, frowning at her. 

“Maybe it’s about time you made some more of those,” Yennefer says, raising an eyebrow at him in response. “Unless you’re enjoying all this, of course, I’d hate to ruin your good time.” 

“Very funny,” Jaskier says, throwing an arm across his eyes. Yennefer sits down on the edge of the bed. 

“I have no idea why you keep coming here,” she says. “Deal with your own problems.” 

“I’m _trying_ ,” Jaskier says, and then realizes—“It’s probably him.”

“What?” she says. 

“Why I keep coming here,” Jaskier says, dropping his arm away from his eyes to look at her. “I’m supposed to give him what he needs.” 

“I’m not a thing to be given,” Yennefer says, her expression darkening. 

“I’m aware, yes,” Jaskier says. “ _He’s_ aware, or I’m sure he’d have tried to find you by now.” 

“What makes you so sure he hasn’t?” Yennefer says. 

“He wouldn’t,” he says, because of course Geralt wouldn’t. “Not unless he thought you were in danger or something.” 

“Then why do you think he’s sending you here?” she says. 

“Well it’s definitely not on purpose,” Jaskier says. “He misses you.” 

“Doesn’t explain why you’re not dreaming anymore,” Yennefer says. 

“No, it doesn’t,” Jaskier murmurs, looking at the roof of the tent again. It’s a very nice tent. Definitely magic, he’s sure. “Maybe it’s because he can’t find me.” 

“His sword’s finding you just fine,” Yennefer points out dryly. 

“I mean because he thinks I’m not . . . _me_ ,” Jaskier says. “He needs me to be out there in the world somewhere, so . . .” 

“Ah,” she says. “You might have something there.” 

Jaskier thinks _and you’re probably the safest place in the world, so far as Geralt thinks,_ but doesn’t say it. He doubts Yennefer would appreciate the sentiment, though he thinks he does. The idea Geralt might want him to be somewhere safe is . . . comforting, a little. 

Much more comforting than a silver blade, at least. 

“Sorry to intrude,” he says, then sits up and puts his feet on the floor. “I know you’ve got villages to ensorcell and all.” 

“And you’ve got a ‘friend’ to find,” Yennefer says with obvious distaste. 

“Yes,” Jaskier says. “I do.” 

.

.

.

It takes a while to find Geralt again, which gives Jaskier a while to think. Geralt needs him to exist. Geralt needs him somewhere safe. Geralt needs to get over his own stupid suspicions and paranoia and accept that he’s _him_. 

He still can’t figure out how to get the other to do that, though. 

Can’t exactly force an idiot to have an epiphany, unfortunately. 

It’d be nice, though. 

.

.

.

Geralt is arguing with a man wearing a chain of office outside a very nice house and looks very tired. Even more tired than last time; like he hasn’t slept in _months_. Jaskier almost, _almost_ just goes up and lies to him, but . . . 

Well. He doesn’t. 

He considers just leaving; considers not even trying. But he exists because he’s needed, and because he’s needed . . . 

He exhales, and he crosses the street. 

“What’s all this?” he says, and inserts himself into the conversation shamelessly. Geralt stares at him. The man in the chain of office sputters. 

Five minutes later, Geralt’s been paid and Ciri is looking at Jaskier like he’s a miracle worker and Geralt is looking at him like he . . . like . . . 

Well, Jaskier doesn’t know, really. 

Not a way he’s looked at him before. 

“Don’t get too excited,” he says, adjusting the lay of his jacket. “Not unless you’ve gotten your head out of your ass about killing me all the time, anyway.” 

The look on Geralt’s face twists almost . . . painfully, Jaskier almost thinks, and Geralt puts a hand on the hilt of his sword. Ciri’s is on her knife. Jaskier just sighs. 

“I didn’t really think you had, but it was a nice thought,” he says resignedly. 

“Why did you do that?” Ciri asks, her eyes flicking back towards the very nice house that the man in the chain of office disappeared into. 

“I always do that,” Jaskier says with a shrug. “It’s one of my specialties. Geralt is truly _spectacular_ at getting stiffed. I didn’t call it ‘Toss A Coin To Your Witcher’ because he was so wonderfully financially stable.” 

“You didn’t call it a fucking thing,” Geralt says. Jaskier sighs again. 

“I did, actually,” he says. “Yennefer still doesn’t say hello, by the way. She’s looking well, though. Nice and nasty, as ever. Told me I needed other friends.” 

“Leave her out of this,” Geralt says, his eyes flashing. 

“What would it take to make you believe me, Geralt?” Jaskier says, frowning at him. “Because no matter what I say, you seem convinced I’ve just found it out somewhere as opposed to, oh, I don’t know, _living_ it.” 

“There are plenty of things that can do that,” Geralt says. 

“Well, I’m not one of them.” Jaskier folds his arms with a huff. “I’m _me_ , exclusively. Just like you wanted.” 

“Stop saying that,” Geralt says. 

“Really not going to,” Jaskier says, eyeing him dubiously. “I’m what you needed, Geralt, because you are a very, very lonely man and no one else is taking care of you. It’s your own fault if you can’t recognize me anymore.” 

Geralt glares at him. Ciri looks between them, looking worried. 

“Can’t you prove it?” she says. “If you’re really the real Jaskier. There must be something.” 

“Nothing I haven’t already tried,” Jaskier says. “What, am I supposed to have a seal of authenticity?” 

“I mean . . . a scar, or a possession, or . . .” She hesitates, and trails off. “Just—something that can’t be faked.” 

“Before all this I was under the impression _people_ couldn’t be faked, so I really have no idea what you want from me on those grounds,” Jaskier says. 

“He’s definitely not a doppelganger, right?” she says to Geralt. “The silver didn’t hurt him. I mean—not like it would’ve hurt a doppelganger.” 

“Oh, it hurt alright,” Jaskier mutters, touching his throat with a grimace. 

“Surely there’s _something_ ,” Ciri says. “You know all about monsters. And about Jaskier.” 

“Mm,” Geralt says. 

“Actually, he doesn’t,” Jaskier supplies helpfully. “Fairly certain he just ignored me most of the time. Otherwise perhaps he’d have noticed the ‘not human’ thing a bit sooner. Say, sometime around when I never mentioned having a family or other friends or any previous life experience to Posada. You know, little things like that.” 

Geralt . . . frowns. 

“That’s not very convincing,” Ciri says. 

“It’s the truth,” Jaskier says with a shrug. “The truth tends to be not particularly convincing. Or particularly catchy, either.” 

"If it's true, you should be able to prove it,” she says. 

“Do you think I help you two for my health?” he says. "Because it's definitely not doing my health any good." 

"That's not . . ." Ciri trails off. 

"How about one of _you_ two proves you are who you say you are, actually?" Jaskier says, gesturing expansively. "Go on, figure out a way you can. I'll wait." 

"Do you believe him?" Ciri says, glancing at Geralt. 

"No," Geralt says, and Jaskier makes a frustrated noise. 

"Geralt!" he says. "What am I supposed to do here? And your answer better not be 'die'!" 

"Hn," Geralt says. Jaskier wants to throw something at him. 

"Really, what do you think I'd get out of pretending to be me?" he demands. "At least I'd be pretending to be someone you actually wanted to _see_." 

"He does want to see Jaskier," Ciri says with a frown. Jaskier laughs. 

"You are woefully misinformed," he tells her. "He was excruciatingly clear about not wanting to see me again, in fact. I have no idea why he's bothering to look for me at all." 

It really doesn't make sense. If he really were dead . . . well, that'd just be life giving Geralt what he'd asked for, wouldn't it? 

Jaskier doesn't appreciate being avenged. He just wanted appreciated when he was around. 

"He's his friend," Ciri says. 

"One of the ones he doesn't have, you mean?" Jaskier sighs, then gives Geralt a _look_. "If you aren't going to believe me, there's nothing I can do to convince you. You might as well kill me again. Go on, I know stabbing your problems makes them go away. Oh wait, _it doesn't_." 

Geralt is silent, his expression mostly blank but brow just barely furrowed. Jaskier still wants to throw something at him. 

"At least _talk_ to me, dammit!" he says. "Don't ignore me!" 

"Jaskier—" Ciri starts, then cuts herself off. "I mean . . ." 

"No, you were right the first time," Jaskier says. "As I've been saying. Now, if you'd just go ahead and slide the knife in, I haven't got all day." 

"Aren't you worried about running out of lives?" Ciri says. 

"Not particularly," Jaskier says. "As long as Geralt needs me and isn't dead himself, I'll be fine. Probably." 

"'Probably'?" she echoes. 

"I mean, as far as I know," Jaskier says. "Admittedly I am not an expert on myself." 

"Do you still not know what you are?" she asks. 

"I'm Geralt's friend," Jaskier says firmly. That's all he needs to be. That's all he's ever been. 

"That's still not an answer," Ciri says. 

"It's the only answer there is," Jaskier replies. 

.

.

.

Geralt, oddly, does not kill Jaskier this time. Jaskier, less oddly, feels a compulsion to follow him. Geralt stays between him and Ciri more often than not, but he doesn't stop him. 

Jaskier might feel like he was making some headway, if it weren't Geralt. 

They leave town, sleep on the road, and move on to the next town. Ciri keeps her hood up as much as possible. Geralt, apparently, is teaching her how to handle a sword. Jaskier suspects they've had similar lessons with that knife. 

Jaskier plays a few songs. Ciri listens. Geralt doesn't. 

He's probably just being given enough rope to hang himself, but . . . 

He's missed travelling with Geralt. That's all. 

.

.

.

"Good morning," Ciri says as Jaskier comes downstairs to them eating breakfast in the latest inn tavern. Geralt still doesn't look like he's been sleeping right. It makes Jaskier itch to do something. 

"Good morning," he says, because Geralt's still more suspicious of him than not and would probably not appreciate being told he looks like a dead thing. Then again . . . "Geralt, you look like a dead thing. Have you slept at _all_?" 

Geralt grunts, which Jaskier supposes he considers an answer. He sighs and pulls out a chair for himself. 

"I’ll take that as a no," he says. “Just let's avoid trying to solve this problem with magic this time." 

"I'm fine," Geralt says. Jaskier does not even slightly believe him. 

"Don't come crying to me when you fall asleep during today’s monster hunt," he says. “Or fish up another djinn.” 

Geralt eyes him. Jaskier raises his eyebrows at him, folding his arms on the table and waiting for a response. Unsurprisingly, he doesn’t get one. 

“How many djinn have you fished up?” Ciri says with a frown. 

“Just the one, but it was incredibly memorable,” Jaskier says, then points at her plate. “Are you going to finish that?” 

.

.

.

Today’s monster hunt is not going to be a particularly interesting monster hunt, judging by the stories the villagers told—it’s a bit much for the average citizen to handle, yes, but it’s certainly no dragon. Geralt leaves them both behind anyway, which Jaskier thinks is a little ridiculous. He can’t actually _die_ , after all. 

Of course, he _can_ feel pain, so he’s not actually going to protest waiting back in town. 

Anyway, it’s probably a good thing that Geralt’s trusting him not to kidnap or murder Ciri, so . . . 

“We have to stay out in public,” Ciri tells him, and Jaskier sighs. Of course. 

“What does he think, I’m going to pick _now_ to pull something?” he asks. 

“Yes,” she says. 

. . . well, fair enough, Jaskier supposes. 

“Fine,” he huffs. “I’m going to go perform for the locals, then, see if I can’t rustle up enough to cover the price of our rooms.” 

“Perform what?” Ciri says. 

“Oh, probably a few things about Geralt,” he says. “Make sure they know to appreciate the work he’s doing and all.” 

“How many songs about him do you have?” she says. 

“An embarrassing amount,” Jaskier admits. “Definitely enough to entertain a town square or a tavern until he gets back.” 

“I can help,” Ciri says. 

“Never let it be said I turned down the assistance of a lovely lady,” Jaskier says, giving her a little bow. 

Jaskier sets up in the middle of town—better traffic during the day and all—and manages to draw a small crowd without too much trouble by singing the tale of a few of Geralt’s better (and better-embellished) adventures. Ciri takes a hat around and collects a few coins from the villagers. The town is uneasy even with Geralt on the job, and clearly soothed by tales of dead monsters; quite a few people stop and listen. By lunchtime, Jaskier’s covered their stay at the inn and at least a meal or two. 

Nice to know at least _some_ people appreciate his music, he thinks. 

.

.

.

Geralt comes back in the evening covered in blood and slime and looking even more exhausted than he did in the morning. Jaskier raises an eyebrow at him, then goes to ask the innkeeper for the bath he’d asked the man to be ready to prepare while Geralt talks to the mayor. It might take _several_ baths to get all that off, frankly, but it’s a start. 

Geralt talks to the mayor, Ciri stays downstairs with her dinner, and Jaskier falls into the reflexive habit of getting around the bathing supplies and pouring a couple of nice-smelling bath oils into the gently steaming water. Geralt never uses them unless Jaskier puts them in himself, which Jaskier’s always thought was ridiculous. If any man needs a nice and soothing scented bath, it’s definitely Geralt. 

Geralt opens the door of their room, then stops in his tracks and gives him a strange look. Jaskier looks back at him and shrugs. 

“What?” he says. “I haven’t poisoned it.” 

“Hn.” The line of Geralt’s mouth sours. Jaskier pours a little bit more oil into the bath. 

“You look disgusting, by the way,” he says matter-of-factly. “I had them send some dinner up for you.” 

“Hn,” Geralt says again. It’s not exactly a conversation, but it’s not as if Jaskier’s not used to carrying those. 

“Come on, get out of that mess and scrub up, you don’t want the water to get cold,” he says, turning his back to the other and straightening the little row of soaps and oils sitting on the dresser. “Certainly can’t feel good, either.” 

Geralt undresses, leaving his blood-drenched armor and probably-ruined clothes on the floor, which is definitely going to suffer for it, and does in fact scrub up with the pitcher and basin. Jaskier resists the urge to pour any more oils in the bath. It’s really not necessary to make Geralt smell like a garden. He collects the other’s clothes instead and eyes them critically, trying to figure out if the mess will come out. Probably not, but he might as well try. He’s gotten pretty good at getting out blood and slime over the years. 

“Honestly, did it _swallow_ you?” he says, still eyeing the mess. 

“Yes,” Geralt says. 

“Of course it did,” Jaskier sighs. That happens far too often. “Did you get paid, or do I have to talk to the mayor?” 

“I got paid,” Geralt says. He steps into the bath and sits down, sinking low in the water. 

“Good,” Jaskier says. “At least you didn’t get swallowed for nothing, then. I got paid too, not that you asked. Put on a bit of a show in town, people appreciated it. Absolutely no one told me I was a pie without any filling.” 

“Are you ever going to let that go?” Geralt says. 

“Geralt, we will be on our _deathbed_ and I will not have let that go,” Jaskier says. 

“The same deathbed?” Geralt says dubiously. 

“Of course,” Jaskier says. “You made me, after all.” 

“Mm.” 

“On that note, you could do a better job not getting hurt,” Jaskier says, eyeing the other’s bruised and battered body. “Did you break anything?” 

“No,” Geralt says. 

“So yes,” Jaskier says. “Do you need any of your potions or is it minor enough that we can just wrap it up when you’re done in there?” 

“It’s fine,” Geralt says. 

“That didn’t actually answer my question,” Jaskier says, picking up the pitcher of ale the innkeeper sent up and pouring Geralt a tankard’s worth to carry over to the bath. Geralt eyes it suspiciously, but takes it, so Jaskier assumes they’re doing better. Or maybe Geralt just assumes he can get to one of his poison-nullifying potions if necessary. Witchers do apparently take longer to be affected by poisons, with how slow their blood flow is. 

Geralt drinks. Jaskier returns to the other’s clothes and seriously considers just burning them, but instead takes them downstairs and asks the innkeeper about borrowing their laundry bucket. They oblige, and Jaskier rolls up his sleeves and spends the better part of the next hour scrubbing the slime out of Geralt’s shirt. It works, more or less, though he might need to let it soak for a while to get the blood out. He worries less about the pants, since they’re dark enough not to really show any stains. 

It still takes him quite a while to wash them both, and by the time he’s headed back upstairs with them, Ciri’s heading back to her room for the night. 

“Is Geralt alright?” she asks. 

“Well, he’s mostly intact,” Jaskier says. “So yes, for Geralt.” 

“You’ll take care of him, right?” she says, biting her lip. 

“Of course,” Jaskier says. “It’s what I’m for, after all.” 

“Okay,” Ciri says, and he leaves her at her room and goes to the next door over, where Geralt is out of the bath and roughly drying his hair. 

“Well, you look better,” Jaskier says as he hangs the other’s clothes to dry. They definitely need it. “Practically presentable, even.” 

“Not in any condition to fight, though,” Geralt grunts, picking up the still-filthy body of his armor and eyeing it resignedly. He grimaces as he bends over, and the bruising on his ribs is really a _sight_ , so that’s probably what he injured, Jaskier thinks. He’d be very surprised to find out he hadn’t at least cracked a couple, anyway, but unfortunately there’s not much to be done about that. 

“Get some sleep,” he says, walking over to take the other’s chestpiece from him. “I’ll deal with the armor.” 

“You don’t know how to take care of it,” Geralt says. 

“I do, actually,” Jaskier says. “I know everything I need to know about you. It’s a gift. Or a curse. Whichever.” 

“Everything?” Geralt says, giving him a strange look. 

“Yes,” Jaskier says. 

Geralt doesn’t say anything. Jaskier supposes he doesn’t like the idea of him knowing . . . well, most of what he knows, really. Ironically, since he clearly _needs_ him to know it. 

“Go on, shoo,” Jaskier says, gesturing towards the closest bed. Geralt needs the sleep more than he does, obviously. Sleep is actually still something of a novelty for him, given that he used to only really experience it when around Geralt for extended periods of time. “I’ve got it.” 

“Hn.” Geralt eyes him for a long moment. His hair’s still damp and needs combed, but the blood and slime’s all gone, at least, and finally he goes over to the bed. Jaskier takes his armor over to the stool by the bath to start cleaning off the gore. Geralt takes a while to actually lay down, but in the end he does, and Jaskier resists the urge to talk at him. Geralt really does need to sleep. 

Jaskier hums a little, because he can’t be _completely_ quiet, but he avoids anything too jaunty or loud and mostly just concentrates on taking care of Geralt’s armor. He’s never really done it before, but he does know how to do it; he always has. It was just information he’d woken up with, the first time he’d woken up. 

Geralt sleeps, or seems to sleep. Jaskier cleans up his armor and then tidies up the room, careful to stay quiet. He does keep humming on and off, but not really on purpose. 

Eventually he lays down on the other bed to sleep himself, curling around his pillow and hoping Geralt manages a decent night’s rest. He needs it, after all. 

And even now, Jaskier still needs to give Geralt what he needs. 

Or wants to, maybe. 

He supposes there’s a difference there, but he hasn’t quite worked it out yet. 

.

.

.

Unsurprisingly, Geralt’s already up when Jaskier wakes up the next morning. He’s dressed in his clean clothes and inspecting his armor with a critical eye that makes Jaskier feel like maybe he should’ve gone over it one more time. Or maybe a few more times than that. 

“You do know how to take care of it,” Geralt says, still looking at his armor. Jaskier sighs in relief. 

“Told you, didn’t I?” he says breezily, pushing himself up and getting off the bed. “Checked on Ciri yet?” 

“She’s downstairs checking on Roach and getting breakfast,” Geralt says. 

“A brilliant plan,” Jaskier says as he straightens his clothes and runs a hand through his hair in a quick attempt to make it at least semi-presentable. “I say we join her. I could murder a sausage. Probably several sausages.” 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and Jaskier stills. Geralt hasn’t called him by name in a very long time. 

“Yes?” he says after a moment, just barely cautious. Geralt’s looking at him very strangely. 

“I killed you,” he says. 

“Yes, I was there,” Jaskier says, a bit more lightly than he feels. Geralt keeps gripping his armor. His knuckles are white. 

“If you’d been vulnerable to silver . . .” he says. 

“I would be dead, yes,” Jaskier says. Geralt’s mouth tightens. Jaskier looks at him for a long moment, and then can’t help asking, “Does this mean you finally believe me? If I’d known all I had to do was scrub a bit of monster muck off your armor I’d have done it _months_ ago.” 

“You cleaned my armor,” Geralt says. “And washed my clothes.” 

“Yes?” Jaskier tilts his head, a little puzzled. “I’m sure I’ve done that before. Admittedly they’re usually a bit less disgusting, but still.” 

“You’re the only person who’s ever done that kind of thing,” Geralt says. 

“Yes, you _have_ been horribly taken care of,” Jaskier agrees. He steps forward and takes Geralt’s armor away from him and sets it on the bed and gives it a little pat. Geralt lets him. 

“What _are_ you?” he says. “Really.” 

“I’m your friend, Geralt,” Jaskier says. It’s still the only answer. Geralt looks at him for a long time, and doesn’t say anything. Jaskier waits. Admittedly it’s not one of his strong suits, but . . . 

Well, if Geralt needs something, he’s going to give it to him. 

“Yennefer’s right,” Geralt says finally. “You should make more friends.” 

“Oh, of course you think _Yennefer’s_ right,” Jaskier huffs, folding his arms. “I have exactly as many friends as I want, thank you very much.” 

“Mm,” Geralt says. Jaskier makes a face at him. 

“You’re so difficult,” he says. “You’re lucky you made me.” 

“I didn’t mean to,” Geralt says. 

“You don’t _mean_ to need things, Geralt,” Jaskier says. “Especially not the kind of things _you_ need.” 

“It’s not fair to you,” Geralt says. 

“What, existing?” Jaskier says, squinting at him in bemusement. 

“Being made for someone,” Geralt says. “Not being able to be . . . yourself.” 

“I would die of boredom being my own man,” Jaskier says frankly. “Keeping an eye on you is much more interesting.” 

“It doesn’t bother you?” Geralt says. 

“No,” Jaskier says. He’s not Yennefer. He’s not afraid that the way he feels is fake or magic or a trap. And even if it _were_ , he wouldn’t care, because it’s still the way he feels. Because Geralt is still a good man and worth being friends with, even if he’s also a bastard who hates to admit he has any friends at all. “I mean, you could stand to be a little nicer to me, I will say that. Maybe don’t, oh, I don’t know, take your relationship with someone else out on me?” 

“You’re right,” Geralt says. Jaskier is genuinely too startled to respond. “I’m sorry.” 

“You have literally never apologized to me in our lives,” Jaskier says, staring at him in disbelief. “You have literally never said I was _right_ in our lives.” 

“You are,” Geralt says. Jaskier blinks at him. No, that isn’t making any more sense. 

“Huh,” he says after a long moment. “You know, I really don’t know what to do with that.” 

“I’m sorry about attacking you, too,” Geralt says. “I could’ve killed you.” 

“Well, you didn’t,” Jaskier says, honestly mystified by this line of conversation. “Which, really if anyone could I would’ve thought it’d be you, so actually I’m rather impressed with myself, I’m much more durable than I’ve been giving myself credit for. Going to have to remember that in the future.” 

“Don’t get yourself hurt,” Geralt says. 

“That is _deeply_ ironic coming from a man who once effectively beheaded me,” Jaskier says. “But I assure you, things like that still hurt just fine and I have no interest in experiencing any more of them.” 

“Good,” Geralt says. Jaskier laughs a little, shaking his head. 

“You're so difficult,” he says again. Geralt just looks at him. Jaskier tries to decide what to do, but really can't. He knows so much about Geralt, but he doesn't know this side of him. He knew it existed, of course, but Geralt's never trotted it out around _him_ —he's always saved it for Yennefer, for strange princesses, for other people. 

Jaskier doesn't need it from him, really, but getting it is . . . 

Well. Nice, he supposes. 

"I accept," he says. "Your apology, I mean. Obviously. As long as you don't intend to pull any of that nonsense again, anyway, in which case I'm taking my lute and going back to Yennefer." 

"She wouldn't take you," Geralt says dryly. 

"Maybe she'll pity me, you don't know," Jaskier says. Geralt rolls his eyes, which is justified. Yennefer doesn't have much pity in her. "Oh, hush. I'll take Ciri with me, she won't turn down a free child." 

"Jaskier," Geralt says, rubbing at his temple, and Jaskier feels _so_ much better hearing him say it again. "I really made you like this?" 

"You did," Jaskier replies smugly. "Therefore everything I do is your fault." 

"You have free will," Geralt says dubiously. 

"Maybe I don't!" 

_"Jaskier."_

"Well, _you_ don't know," Jaskier says huffily. Geralt grabs his wrist. Jaskier expects dragged somewhere for a moment, but no, Geralt appears to be touching him just to touch him. Hm. "I'm not an illusion, you realize. Or going to disappear. At least not as long as you need me, anyway, and you've been continuously needing me for a fairly long time now so I'm not really concerned about my chances." 

"I have no idea how I'm going to explain you to anyone," Geralt says resignedly. 

"I don't need explained!" Jaskier says indignantly. "I'm your friend. That's enough." 

"Is it?" Geralt says, and Jaskier softens a bit. Geralt doesn't really need him to be soft that often, but he's capable of it. 

"Of course it is," he says, and grips the other's face and pulls him down. He presses a kiss to his forehead, and Geralt stills. It's the first time anyone's kissed him outside of a bedroom in quite some time, Jaskier's sure. People don't treat Geralt kindly too often. 

Jaskier wants to. Someone should, and he's more than willing. 

"I love being your friend," he says, letting go of the other and dropping his hands to his shoulders to squeeze them reassuringly. Geralt doesn't move. "I'm very happy to be." 

"I made you happy to be," Geralt says roughly. 

"I mean, probably," Jaskier says with a shrug. "But I've had plenty of opportunities to change my mind." 

"Mm." Geralt just looks at him. Jaskier squeezes his shoulders again, then lets go. 

"I'm your very best friend in the whole wide world," he says as kindly as he thinks Geralt can stand to hear. "And you're mine." 

"Jaskier," Geralt says again, and nothing else. It's all Jaskier actually needs to hear, so he doesn't mind. 

"Yes," he says. That's probably all the emotions Geralt can stand for one day, so . . . "Now then, let's go downstairs while there's still breakfast to be had, mm?" 

"Fine," Geralt says, and Jaskier smiles at him. 

"Good," he says, and then out of nowhere Geralt grips the back of his neck and kisses his forehead too, brief and rough but unmistakable. Jaskier makes a mildly surprised noise, blinking at him. Geralt lets go of him and strides quickly for the door. Jaskier . . . 

Jaskier hums to himself, and follows his friend.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://suzukiblu.tumblr.com/)


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